Cyles
by White Crow
Summary: "And I don't want to know/ what's it like to live without you so/ Stay with me"    Cato/Clove drabbles
1. Cycles

**Cycles**

It's her son's third birthday.

There are colors and noises and movements, and oh my god, children. They move too fast for Clove's eyes sometimes that her hands begin to crawl to her thigh. Only, there is no knife. Or dagger. Only skin underneath the silk dress. Only empty pockets that are often filled with restless hands and searching fingers.

She talks her heart into calming down as she catches a glimpse of his blonde hair. He's there, she repeats to herself, he's there and nobody's going to take him.

"Shall I bring out the hors d'oeuvres, Madam?"

The waiter's crisp white dress shirt blinds her for a moment as she recovers.

"Yes, yes."

She hears a scream from far away and she tenses. Clove half expects the sound of a cannon but she wills the thought away. There will be no cannons. Not here. Not yet.

She slips out of the kitchen and into the living room. Half of her mind mechanically commands her body to arrange the vase in her path, the painting on the wall, to pick up a toy left beside the stairs. But the other half has already gone right back under the trees, in the brush, and if everybody could just be silent for a moment, Clove thinks she can hear him breathe.

"Madam, the cake is ready."

Another waiter motions for her to follow and her feet do. Her hands once again find themselves on her hips, on the same spot he held when he wanted her to shut up, calm down, relax, listen.

"I am calm," she tells no one. _I am calm, she tells him._

The people around her gather in various states of happiness. Their laughter seems to steal the breath from her own lungs. She is careful that none of them touches her. Because if they do, if they do, she wouldn't have anywhere to run.

Then she sees him, him with the different eyes, different mouth, same hair; with the father who is not _him_, and she smiles. Because he is there, and they will not take him.

"Cato," she calls. "It's time to blow out your candles, baby."

A/N: New fandom, new OTP. My Muse doesn't seem to want to shut up.


	2. Most Grievous Fault

**Most Grievous Fault**

_Cato/Clove slightly R_

* * *

><p>Cato did not believe in forgiveness, but he believed in sin. In his head, he listed all the ones he committed and the ones he were yet to, counting them when he could not sleep.<p>

The day he first saw Clove, he added ten to the list. Seven of which became cold, hard truth by afternoon.

The remaining three, he told her, he would leave for the Games.

"I feel special," she said, with a smile that cut better than her knives.

—-

He chose a dark night for the third.

Everyone slept as his right hand traveled under her shirt and into her pants. His left trapped a gasp in her throat. Her fingers tried to crush his wrists, but they were too late.

When she had moaned for release, he slowly dragged his nails up, up her abdomen.

He made her watch as he kissed the marks.

—-

The second came when there were only four.

She was alive in his arms. With each struggle, he triumphed.

"I hate you!" she had spat before he slapped her.

The rage in her eyes glinted like newly forged steel, while his pride swelled with the bruise on her cheek.

—-

The last he had saved for when they were finally alone. But they never were.

As he cradled her deformed head in his arms, he counted all the other sins he would never make. Even if she had let him.

"I feel special," she had whispered.

He did not have time to close her eyes.

That last night, he dreamt that she still watched him. With that same sharp smile, she waited for him to pay for his sins.

* * *

><p><em>Fin<em>


	3. Closer

**Closer**

When Cato grabs her, there is no gentleness. Urgency has always come first. It was so that first night on the train, and so shall it be on that last night in the Capitol.

Even before she could raise her arms, his hands have already peeled off the thin nightgown that separates skin from skin. He touches with fingertips, lips, tongue, and she tries to keep up with the cadence of his heartbeats.

Love does not cross their thoughts. It is as far away as memories of frilly dresses and real smiles. As Cato murmurs her name into her ear, Clove wishes she had a childhood she could recall. Something, anything to make her believe this is not the most real she has ever felt.

He shoves her to the bed. The pins in her hair give out and the strands fall haphazard on the covers. He grabs a handful, smells them, then stuffs them into her mouth.

She blinks and he enters. Behind her eyelids, she can see the first time she had asked him to fuck.

_"Aren't you saving yourself?" he had asked._

_"There is nothing left to save."_

She pushes and he fills. This is the only way she'd let him complete her.

For Clove, there is nothing to look forward to. No other life event to anticipate. The Games will be her baptism, wedding, funeral.

Everything else will have to make way.

She becomes rougher, and he enjoys how she wants to match him pace by pace. Like everything else, this was a competition.

"You have to do better than that," Cato groans, a smirk permanent on his lips as he watches her come undone. But he does not stop. Does not cease until the tremors in her body compound to earthquakes.

When he finally lets go, his huge arms envelop her shoulders. Clove marvels at how small she seems underneath him. She decides from then on to always be on top.

He falls into the perfect spot beside her. Their limbs move into the places they find the most comfort.

Almost asleep, he grabs her wrist with a force she has associated with desperation.

"Come here," he mouths.

"I am here."

"No. Closer."

Clove rests her head just below his chin, where her lips meet his heart.

Tonight, she acquiesces. Tomorrow, she kills.

* * *

><p>AN: The Clato feels don't want to stop.


	4. Under the Sheets

Rating: G

Clove liked to think that she could love. She did not exactly know how it was done, but she could learn. She was a fast learner (they _all_told her so).

But they (the boys, all the boys before) never tried. They tried with other girls who ran slower, threw slower, thought slower. But never with her.

"Maybe you should slow down, too," he teased, "so they could catch you."

It was easy for him to say. Cato had no plans to catch her. Which was well, Clove thought in secret, because he already had her.

* * *

><p>Clove believed there were many ways you could own a person.<p>

Of course, there was taking their lives. When you watch their eyes glaze with the unknown- that, for Clove, was the epitome of possession. Your face as the last panel in their memories.

There were other ways she knew about, too.

Like when her father slapped her because she came second.

Like when her teacher yelled at her because she missed her target.

Like when her mother stopped smiling at her just because.

All of them took human parts of her and replaced them with steel.

But sometimes, sometimes when Cato looked at her (simply looked and never spoke), Clove felt all those parts come back.

As kids, Cato and Clove played hide and seek, only with different rules.

Rule number one: they hide together.

Rule number two: they don't get caught.

They would hide until it was dark, until all that's left in the world was them. Then they would burrow themselves more, trying to fit their growing limbs into corners.

The next day, they would come out with smug faces. They would hit with precision and never look at each other like they knew. Inside, they were still hiding. Outside, they would not get caught.

* * *

><p>What annoyed her the most was the fact that he never touched her. Even when they were alone. Especially when no one could see.<p>

When they hid (under leaves, under tables, under sheets) he'd curl up and hold himself instead.

Cato didn't know it, but this was when Clove started to die.

When they were reaped, Clove waited for him to shove her or punch her or strangle her. But he didn't even shake her hand.

At night, Cato would come to her still. They would take the same positions; close enough to feel each other's breaths, but far enough not to feel anything else. And Clove would keep on dying, with her eyes wide and her mouth shut.

* * *

><p>When she died, he held her. Finally.<p>

His grip was strong, his hands were bloody, and they were perfect.

_"Why?" she had asked._

"Why what?"

"Why won't you touch me?"

Cato did not smirk. "Because if I do, I will never stop."

Clove's last thoughts were of his mouth, of his arms, of his hair, and how she would never be able to touch him back.


End file.
